


Catalyst

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Feel-good, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23890648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Perhaps it was the flowers, or the impertinent message, or the insipid floral card that the sender had used, that sparked Tommy's inkling—just an inkling—that this bullshit was the work of Alfie Solomons.Post Series 4. Instead of letters, Alfie sends Tommy anonymous gifts after his presumed death. Tommy is confused.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 12
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't help myself, guys. I really like to play with possibilities and what-ifs after Series 4. There's just too many options! I hope you enjoy this little canon-divergence.
> 
> There will be either two or three parts in total.

There was nothing so effective at waking Tommy up for the day than seeing an anonymous parcel on his desk that, for all he knew, could be a bomb—or something equally lethal.

It wouldn’t be the first attempt at his life in his own home and it wouldn’t be the last. If Charlie or Ruby had come upon this before he did...

Tommy summoned Frances to his study. Once she had arrived, he gestured to the box on his desk from a careful distance away. "So, what's this, Frances?"

“We’ve had it inspected, Mr Shelby—nothing malign it is. Should I still call someone to remove it, sir?”

If his servants wanted him dead for whatever reason, they would’ve had plenty of chances by now.

“No,” Tommy said after a pause, “it’s fine.”

Might as well get it over with.

After dismissing Frances, Tommy opened the box in no one’s company but his own; inside was a pair of baby shoes with frills and ribbons—the whole lot.

Fucking _baby shoes_.

Attached was a simple note. _Congratulations_ , it read, _the more the merrier, eh?_

With such a brazen display of audacity, the list of possible senders wasn’t a big one; it occurred to Tommy, first and foremost, that the sender could be one of Lizzie’s past scorned lovers. What was almost impossible, however, was Lizzie seeing a man so senseless he would pull a trick like this to Tommy of all people.

That alone was enough for him to dismiss the notion entirely.

* * *

The next gift came along a week later; a bouquet of roses sat on Tommy’s desk when he walked into his study.

 _Life is good,_ the note said, _how about yours, Tom?_

Perhaps it was the flowers, or the harmless yet fucking impertinent message, or the insipid floral card that the sender had used, that sparked an inkling—just an inkling—that this bullshit was the work of one Alfie Solomons.

Who else would be so bloody insufferable?

It appeared Alfie had climbed out of his grave and decided to send Tommy _presents_ for God knows what reason.

He held the note to the flame and gave the flowers to Lizzie.

* * *

Nothing else came about for the next two weeks, thus Tommy was nearly convinced the antics had stopped—he was aghast to find himself a _little_ disappointed at that—until he received a whole box of dog treats one morning.

 _Cyril’s favourites,_ the note read.

The bastard.

Annoyance and relief warred within Tommy at the confirmation that Alfie was very much alive; it was just—did he have to relay the information in the most circuitous way possible?

Later in the day, Tommy put the treats to the test with none other than Cyril himself. With an unforeseen enthusiasm, the dog licked every scrap of it off of Tommy’s palm until his hand was coated in a sheen of spittle.

“They’re really your favourites, huh?”

Having finished the food, Cyril gazed at him with a wistfulness that bordered on pitiful.

Tommy sighed, retrieving another piece of the jerky. “Sit,” he said, because even a dog that lived in a mansion had to earn his way sometimes.

* * *

Anyone who knew Tommy would say he’d be the last person to make a decision out of impulse—in both his personal and professional life.

Yet, a week later as Tommy got into his car with the bouquet of dead roses on his passenger seat, his decision to drive to Margate felt to him like nothing if not fucking _impulsive._

Still, what was the worst that could happen?

He could die, perhaps, if Alfie had decided he was furious at Tommy’s utter failure at putting him down, though the notion did feel a little ridiculous; certainly they were past the point of enemies in business and, well, outside of business Tommy would like to think they would—at least—be on _amicable_ terms.

If nothing else, Tommy’s curiosity would finally be satiated, and that alone would be worth the trip.

It wasn’t difficult for Tommy to locate Alfie’s house, for Alfie had all but painted a picture for him on that one evening before the boxing match.

_Great, big white building; monkey puzzle tree against a sky of blue; a piece of heaven._

Tommy pulled up in front of the building, and it was this moment, all at once, he felt unsure of it all.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Alfie had given him little gifts as treats and, like a dog, Tommy had eaten it all up and arrived at his bloody doorstep by the end of it.

Whatever—Alfie had seen him at his worst and this was certainly not half-way close to it.

He rang the doorbell. There was no answer for a minute, and Tommy wondered if he had gotten it terribly wrong, that—against all odds—it hadn’t been Alfie, and this wasn’t remotely close to being his house. Fuck.

The door opened and a woman stood before it—housekeeper, most likely.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I’m here to see Mr Solomons.”

As the words left his lips, the woman’s eyes grew a little wider. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir.”

It stood to reason Alfie would be aiming to keep a low profile after all the hassle, thus Tommy attempted a different route. “My name is Thomas Shelby,” he said, steeling his gaze upon the woman, knowing—hoping—his name would suffice.

It did.

“Right,” she said after a brief silence, “come on in, Mr Shelby. Mr Solomons has been expecting you.” Her gaze settled on the wilted bouquet in his hand. “Can I...help you with that, sir?”

“No,” Tommy said with a polite smile, “a housewarming gift, so to speak.”

The interior was ornate and quaint, with a little dramatic flair—much like the man himself, and Tommy couldn’t resist a small amused smile at the observation.

The housekeeper led him up a flight of stairs. As they approached the second floor, Tommy felt his heart beat a little faster with anticipation, nervousness, excitement—whatever the fuck it was, he didn’t dwell on it too much. What would be the point? He was already here, for God’s sake.

When Tommy entered the sitting room, Alfie was lounging in a chair on the balcony, facing the beach.

“Mr Shelby is here to see you, sir,” the housekeeper announced before retreating down the stairs.

“Took you bloody long enough, Thomas,” Alfie said with his back towards Tommy. “I was beginning to think, right, that you were set on ignoring me. That would be a very, very hurtful thing to do, wouldn’t it, hmm?”

It was absurd, really, that hearing Alfie’s voice again would make Tommy smile like that—fucking _absurd,_ so he willed an expression of nonchalance before he approached him.

Tommy set down the bouquet on the little table beside Alfie. “Welcome back.”

Glancing at the wilted roses, Alfie gave a brief laugh. “Good Lord, you really did fucking miss me, eh?”

Tommy shrugged, looking away; he hadn’t thought of it _that_ way…

As he turned back to Alfie, that was when he saw his face, truly, for the first time since he had shot him. A scar left by Tommy’s bullet ran along the length of his left cheekbone—freshly healed, it appeared—and with the bullet had also gone his eye, which took Tommy aback a little.

What was ever strange, however, was the mess of little scratches along his right cheek, on his nose, and a particularly long, thin one along his neck.

Tommy raised his eyebrows at the sight.

“Let me tell you something, Tommy,” Alfie said in response to his bewilderment. “Cats, right, fucking cats—they are spawns from Hell itself, and that is nothing but the truth, mate.”

That was when Tommy noticed two little balls of fur beneath Alfie’s hands; one was white with grey patches along its body, and the other one was ginger.

Not only had Alfie died and returned to life, it seemed he had also become a cat enthusiast of sorts.

Well, there were worse things to be.

“Cyril would be disappointed to see you’ve forgotten him,” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette.

“Don’t be silly, mate. It is because I miss my Cyril, all right, that I decided to pick up these two little demons I found. Speaking of which, how _is_ my dog, Thomas?”

“Good.” Tommy took a drag of his cigarette. “He likes your treats, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t, actually. I knew he would, yeah,” Alfie said with a lazy grin. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, glancing down at his lap, when the ginger kitten nipped at his finger. “Tommy, I think they hate me. Fucking ungrateful shits.”

It was strange to hear those words spoken with such affection.

Then again, Alfie was nothing if not strange—certainly almost as much as Tommy’s day was shaping up to be.

Strange and—pleasant.

He watched Alfie play with the kittens with an idle smile, and it wasn’t until one of the cats climbed up Alfie’s sleeve and almost fell off that Tommy wondered what the fuck had happened for him to be in this situation.

Still, Tommy might even admit—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had two ideas: 1) to write Alfie sending Tommy random gifts, and 2) Alfie getting kittens, then I went 'why not both at once?' :)


	2. Chapter 2

“Ginger and Grey?” Tommy asked, enunciating each word slowly; it wasn’t so much a question as a snub at Alfie’s lack of creativity at work.

Frankly, it was a wonder Cyril hadn’t been named Brown.

The kitten resting on Alfie’s shoulder—Grey—gave an approving purr as Alfie reached up and petted its back. “Gets the job done, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does.”

That afternoon, amongst the embrace of Margate’s breeze and lull of breaking waves, they talked about many things: Tommy’s work, his children, Alfie’s injuries, the cats, anything and everything except for the reason Tommy was here—until now.

“Why did you send me those gifts, Alfie?”

“They’re for your daughter and Cyril, all right, not you, mate.”

“And the flowers?” Tommy took a drag of his cigarette, raising his eyebrows. “They’re for my wife, then?”

Cracking a brazen grin, Alfie asked, “Did she like them? She better. I put a lot of thought into those roses, yeah, I did. Bloody expensive too, they were.”

“Fuck off, Alfie.”

Letting out a quiet laugh, Alfie picked up Grey from his shoulder and set the cat on his lap with Ginger. A calm silence settled between them as Tommy kept his gaze on the horizon, helping himself to another smoke.

“Do you wish they were for you, Tom?” Alfie asked apropos of nothing.

“Like I said—fuck off.” Tommy’s voice was light, despite himself.

Tommy knew, in a way, that those flowers were for him—why the fuck would Alfie send them to _Lizzie_?

For that matter, why would Alfie send flowers to _him_?

“...because they were, yeah. I mean, they _could_ be—for you, if you choose to perceive them as such.”

Tommy paused, glancing back. “What?”

But Alfie had already retreated to the living room.

* * *

One week had passed before Tommy returned to Margate. The time between his visits had felt ever inconsequential in its passing as Tommy found himself counting down the days, which was—disconcerting, to say the least.

He tried not to think about it.

“What are you doing?” Tommy asked flatly, when Alfie watched the ocean using one side of his binoculars, held vertically, as though he’d wanted to drive home the reminder—yet again—that his left eye had been blinded by Tommy himself.

Passive-aggressive bastard.

“Watching ships,” Alfie said simply. “I’ve found, right, the afterlife gets fucking boring real fucking fast when that’s all there is, Tommy. For this very reason, in retirement one has to find joy amongst simpler things.”

“Like adopting stray cats, eh?”

Alfie kept his view on a distant ship. “Like so, yeah.” He removed the binoculars and tossed them to Tommy. “Give it a go, mate.”

Tommy did; although it wasn’t nearly half as impressive as Alfie had made it out to be, he kept watching regardless.

* * *

One afternoon, Tommy dropped a small package onto Alfie’s table.

Regarding it with a suspicion that verged on insulting, Alfie asked, “What the fuck is that?”

“Open it,” Tommy said.

Alfie obliged, though not without another skeptical glance at him. “A monocular?”

“Because using half of your binoculars to watch ships is fucking pathetic,” was all Tommy said.

Alfie’s grin in response was almost— _almost_ —worth the effort.

* * *

Between business, family and more business, Tommy didn’t go to Margate for a while after his last visit.

The gifts and letters didn’t stop, however, even if they were more sporadic these days. They were always little trinkets: seashells, treats for Cyril, once Alfie had even sent a little tub of peach preserves—Alfie was testing his culinary skills and Tommy’s penchant for being his subject, apparently.

Tommy would receive letters, sometimes—short ones, nothing of consequence, and they were usually about the cats; words borne from Alfie’s boredom in retirement they seemed to be. Tommy wasn’t sure if he ought to be offended or flattered that Alfie had deemed him as a source of entertainment even if he was literally fucking two hundred miles away.

He wasn’t _that_ interesting—he never even wrote back, for fuck’s sake—then again, perhaps it was a good thing at least one person thought otherwise.

* * *

A month later, Tommy received another telegram.

 _Ginger and Grey are thinking of you,_ it said.

He read the sentence over and over again, wondered if there was anything more to it.

Eventually, Tommy decided there wasn’t, thus when he got into his car for a drive to Margate, he told himself he was doing it for the cats.

It was just his luck the sky decided to fucking _fall_ during his journey—and fall it did. Rain pelted against his car; lightning cracked across the sky; he couldn’t see more than five fucking yards down the road and, of course, it was by courtesy of Tommy’s incredible luck his car decided to fail on this day, at this hour, in this godforsaken weather.

* * *

It was after dusk when Tommy arrived at Alfie’s house.

“Good Lord, you look like you got washed up from the fucking ocean, mate,” Alfie said, voice raised over the storm’s protest.

Tommy brushed past him and entered the house. “Car broke down, walked to the nearest village, got it towed. The rest is history.”

“I’ve to say, Tommy, your dedication is quite admirable.” Alfie closed the door behind them. “I’ll get my housekeeper to run a bath in the guest room. I can’t imagine, right, that dragging your feet around like a wet dog could feel all that pleasant.”

Well, he imagined correctly. “Thank you, Alfie. That would be nice.”

* * *

The heat of the bath seeped through Tommy’s skin and settled into his bones, chasing away every last bit of the cold. Closing his eyes, he sank further into the tub until the water was level with his chin, then a little bit more, and nothing—absolutely fucking _nothing_ —could feel better than this precise instant.

He loosened his grip on reality—just for a moment, and another, and another.

A soft mewling pulled Tommy back to the present. The sound was coming from the door, which was hanging ajar.

“Grey?” he attempted, and when there wasn’t a response, he added, “Ginger?”

Did months-old kittens even answer to their name?

Tommy wasn’t planning to wait much longer to find out. Sighing, he washed himself quickly, drained the tub and slipped into a set of clothes Alfie’s housekeeper had laid out for him—grey pants and a white shirt, a little loose in places but unremarkable otherwise; it occurred to Tommy then, that these were clothes that very likely belonged to Alfie himself.

He didn’t quite know how to feel about such a realisation, though his relief at having any dry clothes to wear at all was certainly palpable.

With the utmost care, Tommy opened the door, and behind it was Ginger, who whined at him at the sudden movement.

Tommy picked up the kitten gently. “How did you find your way here, eh?” He held Ginger against his chest, raising his eyebrows when the cat nuzzled against him.

It was peculiar, really, how this creature had found comfort in him when people around him couldn’t.

When Tommy entered the living room, Alfie was reading a book with Grey perched on the armrest of his sofa.

“There you are,” Alfie said, squinting at the ball of fur in Tommy’s arm, “was wondering where the little fellow had gone, yeah.”

Tommy settled onto the sofa across from him, letting Ginger sprawl across his lap. “Your cat interrupted my bath, Alfie.”

“A grave sin, I concur. I’m sure he is terribly sorry.” Alfie reached for the teapot on the table beside him. “Tea?”

Tommy lit a cigarette, leaning back against the cushion. “Sure.”

That night, when the sky was all but black and heavy with rain, they didn’t talk much, only indulged in the quietness of each other’s company, as well as the cats’. Tommy had pulled a book from Alfie’s shelf and read as he smoked; the novel wasn’t anything interesting, which was just as well, for the presence of the kitten on his lap, and Tommy wearing Alfie’s clothes, and Alfie himself across from him making the occasional remark to Tommy about the story he was reading—it was all too fucking much.

In a good way or not, Tommy wasn’t sure—good, perhaps; he wanted it to be so.

“You know, mate, I never thought there’d be the day where I’m sitting here, right here, yeah, with two cats and Tommy Shelby for company.” Alfie met Tommy’s gaze from the fringe of his book. “Strange fucking thing, isn’t it?”

Shrugging, Tommy simply drew an inhale from his cigarette.

“A nice sort of strange, though,” Alfie clarified, though Tommy didn’t know why he had bothered to…

Nonetheless, he was relieved to hear it.

* * *

It was the first night Tommy spent at Margate, and on this night, the torrential rain continued with the occasional lightning that illuminated the world for an instant, and thunder that woke the town for more than one.

In Alfie’s guest room, it was warm, and Tommy didn’t sleep. When the power failed, just like that the room fell cold. With a sigh, Tommy closed the book and put it aside. After scrambling in the dark for his lighter, he set alight a candle and let it burn on the nightstand. However, it wasn’t long before Tommy resigned to a sleepless night and, instead of watching the shadows shift on the walls, he opted for a wander around Alfie’s house with the candle. By one inexplicable reason or another, Tommy found himself in front of Alfie’s room where the door was hanging slightly open, and through the gap he heard Alfie’s voice.

“There, there. Is that better?”

Tommy let himself into the room. “Alfie?”

Glancing at him through the dark, from the corner where the kitten's bed was, Alfie said, “Mate, I need some help here. What the fuck am I supposed to do about crying baby cats because they’re scared of, I don’t fucking know, thunder?”

Right.

Tommy wasn’t the person to ask, either. Then again, he _was_ a father of two.

It was as good a start as any.

* * *

It was either five minutes or one hour later when they managed—and Tommy didn’t know how, just that they did—to lull the kittens to sleep in their arms; Grey was in Alfie’s, and Tommy had Ginger. Not until a good ten minutes later did they put the cats back into their bed, lest they awoke yet again.

Tommy was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, and Alfie beside him. It was silent except for the pattering of rain against the windows, and the quiet sounds of their breathing. They didn’t speak for a long time, simply lingered in place, and Tommy wondered if Alfie had fallen asleep until Alfie said, “This feels fucking strange, doesn’t it?”

“...yeah.”

“A good sort of strange, though,” came Alfie’s voice in the dark.

“You’ve said that.”

He felt Alfie shrug next to him. “Felt like saying it again, yeah,” Alfie mumbled, “in case you forgot.”

What the _fuck_ did that even mean?

“Alfie.”

“What?”

Tommy closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the wall. “Do you ever hear yourself, eh?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, mate.”

Into another stretch of silence they receded, though this time around, the air was a little thicker than it used to be, with this—this _thing_ — “Alfie,” Tommy said again, the word struggling a bit against his throat.

The response came a little wearier this time. “What?”

“Is this a dream?”

Nothing, then—

“If you want it to be, Tom.” Pause. “Do you?”

Tommy said nothing and, instead, turned to Alfie and brought their foreheads together. For a moment, they remained still, breathing each other’s air, teetering on the edge of this—this fucking _madness_ and there was nothing else Tommy wanted but to fall.

“Gonna wake up anytime soon now,” Tommy whispered.

“You silly boy,” was all Alfie said before he kissed him.

* * *

Coarse hands; tender lips; brazen bites; sweet nothings.

Such dichotomy ought to be jarring—yet here, now, amidst Alfie’s sacrilegious worship, it felt to Tommy like nothing short of whimsical.

Between the darkness, flashes of lightning, and the dull roar of the storm in the backdrop, nothing felt—real.

 _Was_ it real?

“Yes, it is,” came Alfie’s voice between nips and kisses along the length of Tommy’s neck.

Had he said it aloud?

Alfie’s cock throbbed in Tommy’s hand, pulsing, wanting.

God, Tommy wanted him, wanted to fuck him, wanted to be fucked _by_ him. He wanted everything, all at once—now, fucking _now_ —

He gripped Alfie’s shoulders, raked his nails along the skin. Tommy couldn’t see them, though he suspected there would be red marks left by his desire in the morning.

A hiss. “ _Fuck_ , Tommy.”

He grinned against Alfie’s jaw, brought their mouths together again. “Shh, don’t want to wake them, do we?”

Harsh breaths quietened a touch.

“Good.” Tommy curled a hand around Alfie’s cock, giving it one steady stroke—just one.

Alfie gasped against Tommy’s throat. “Tell me what you want.” He dragged his mouth up the length until his lips rested by Tommy’s ear and the only thing Tommy could hear now was Alfie’s ragged breathing and his own heartbeat. “What do you want?” Alfie asked again.

It was a growl—carnal, hedonistic, and all too fucking delightful.

Tommy sank his hand into Alfie’s hair, turning his head so their eyes met. “Fuck me.”

* * *

Alfie was everywhere—above Tommy, around him, inside him.

A stifled gasp. __“__ Oh, __fuck__ —”

Tommy could see it now, the end—the light. So close, so __fucking__ close.

Up and up and up, then…

_“Alfie.”_

Ripples of pleasure—electric, pulsing.

“Was that all right?”

Of course it was more than _fucking all right_ , Tommy wanted to say. He couldn’t find the words. Not now, perhaps not ever.

Beside him, Alfie seemed to understand without the words being said.

Their hands found each other in the dark.

* * *

The rain continued, and they fell asleep to the sound of rainfall.

It was almost twilight. Still a dream, it was.

When they awoke, they did so to a new day.

Oh, a new day indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been raining so much where I am, and it's so cold (winter approaching in Australia). Wanted to incorporate this into the story, in a way. Hope you enjoyed this :)
> 
> P.S. The smut was written more stylistically here, a bit experimental. Let me know what you think if you'd like!


End file.
